


unfinished erejean scraps

by jooheon



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Fake Marriage, Grindr, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-07 09:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18870199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooheon/pseuds/jooheon
Summary: The amount of erejean I've posted to this account does not accurately reflect my erejean craze lol... the reason is because I am bad at finishing things... so, if I ever do happen to finish any of the wips here, I will give them their own post, but... that seems mighty unlikely! So! I just thought I would dump here a little collection of the many au's I have planned and given up on re: erejean for the past six years or so!! Enjoy?list and tags to be updated as I post!1. summer before college2. fake marriage3. grindr4. college fuckbuddies5. zombie apocalypse





	1. summer before college

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains past onesided jeanmarco and ugh YES I KNOW okay I hate myself for it too!!

June

 

It happened at Armin’s house, that last summer before college, in the sudden rush of almost frantic hangouts and kickbacks where they all got together and drank and smoked and talked and laughed and fought about anything and everything but what was waiting beyond August. The where of the kickbacks depended largely on parents. Sasha’s dad was a hardass, but her backyard stretched into cozy, private woods. Jean’s place was small, but his mom was always gone on business trips. Tonight they were at Armin’s house, because he had a fully furnished basement and a grandfather who was mostly deaf.

“Truth or dare,” Sasha sang out, cheeks red and eyes glazed. Armin had been firm about no one smoking inside, so she and Connie and Eren had disappeared to the back porch for a while. Now they were all three grinning and tangled up together in a single loveseat.

“No more truth or dare,” Armin groaned, “please, not tonight.” The dares tended to involve bodily fluids, destruction or property, or both, and nobody ever picked truth. “Not in my house.”

“Aww, come on,” Connie said cajolingly. “One round, one round. Here, okay, look,” he slung an arm around Eren’s neck, “Eren, truth or dare?”

“Dare.” No hesitation. Typical Eren.

“Okay, dare?” Connie said. “Yeah, okay, damn, let me think…” He made a belabored show of scratching his chin in fake contemplation. “I dare you to make out with Jean.”

Everyone in the room snickered. Jean groaned.

“Okay,” Eren said brightly, eyes twinkling as he gave Jean a long look.

“Fuck you all and your truth or dare,” Jean said, but it came out with no bite. Cross-legged on the ground, he swirled the remnants of a cheap can of beer in his left hand. It was either his third or fifth beer. Or seventh. Definitely an odd number. So he was tipsy, but not drunk enough for _this_. “I did not agree to be a part of your game.”

“Pucker up, Kirstein,” Eren said gleefully, clambering out of the loveseat.

“You’re an embarrassment,” Jean said. He set the beer down next to him, watched Eren cross the room and then get down on all fours on the carpet. He licked his lips. Okay, maybe he _was_ drunk enough for this.

“Take it easy, it’s just a dare,” Eren said. And then he was crawling forward and kissing Jean, pushing him back hard, harder than Jean had time to prepare for, so that they both toppled completely to the floor.

“Ow,” Jean hissed, because on the impact, Eren’s teeth hit Jean’s lower lip and drew a little blood. He probed gingerly at the cut with the tip of his tongue and winced. “Eren, what the hell, _ow._ ”

“Sorry,” Eren mumbled, before going in slower, gentler, trailing his hands softly down the sides of Jean’s face and through his hair, his lips on Jean’s softer still. He was more or less straddling Jean now, knees locked around his thighs, a comforting weight pressing down from above. Jean  hadn’t been kissed a ton in his eighteen years, but definitely enough to know how he liked it, and — damn it, he liked _this_ , this mellow, hot wave. Even if Eren did taste like weed and stale beer. Even if he was using a little more tongue than Jean felt was entirely appropriate for their friend group to be witnessing.

It was that last thought that finally broke him out of it, some indeterminate amount of time later. Jean realized belatedly that his hands had come up to clutch at Eren’s shoulder blades, and Eren had started grinding on him a little, and though Ymir called out goonishly “Gayyyy!” as Jean pulled back to look Eren, dazed, in the eyes, it seemed that literally no one else was paying them any mind, as something much more exciting was happening involving Connie, some Fireball, and a bottle of hot sauce. Jean was two parts grateful, one part affronted: shouldn’t they care a little more that he was letting himself be kissed by Eren Jaeger? Or was this really such an inevitable outcome that it warranted no reaction at all?

“Hey!” Armin’s voice cut through the noise. “You’re spilling beer on the carpet! C’mon, Jean, guys, seriously?”

“Wha— sorry,” Jean said, unceremoniously shoving Eren away by the chest, “sorry, Armin.” His beer can lay toppled forlornly beside him, though it was nearly empty and had spilled only a scant few drops. “I’ll clean it up.”

“Sorry, Armin,” Eren said, rolling back on his haunches. He didn’t look sorry. He looked rumpled and flushed and well-kissed; he looked over the moon. Jean decided not to feel any type of way about that.

He went upstairs to retrieve some paper towels and cleaning spray, and when he returned, everyone was gathered around Connie, who’d gone an interesting shade of green, expressing various levels of concern.

“He’ll be fine,” Ymir said, waving her hand flippantly, “remember in ninth grade when he ate that super moldy yogurt? That was _way_ worse than this.”

“He was hospitalized for two days over that,” said Bertholdt. "Are we maybe setting the threshold too low here?"

“I’m good,” Connie said, grimacing as he flashed a double thumbs-up.

“I guess I’ll take him home,” Sasha said. “I need to get going anyway, it’s like three-thirty. My dad’ll be up soon, he’d flip if he knew I was out all night.”

So Sasha and Connie rolled wobbily off on their crappy old tandem bike, Reiner and Bertholdt piled into Ymir’s Saab, and by the time Jean finished scrubbing the splash of beer out of the carpet, it was just Eren and Armin left, the two of them sitting on the couch together looking drowsy.

“It’s so late,” Armin yawned. “Jean, do you want me to give you a ride home still?”

“Uh, you’re tired, so no,” Jean said, “you don’t have to. Can I crash here?”

“Yeah,” Armin said. Another yawn. “There’s blankets in the closet over there.”

Jean obligingly fetched a couple of blankets, and draped one over both Eren and Armin, who were leaning adorably against each other’s shoulders now, struggling to keep their eyes open. Still, Eren smiled up at Jean in a way that made him blush inexplicably.

“D’you wanna,” Eren started in a whisper, but Armin cut him off with surprising volume.

“Not under my roof, you animals.”

“Okay,” Eren chuckled.

Jean turned off the light and curled up by himself on the loveseat, but he could swear that as Armin’s breathing steadied, Eren whispered through the darkness, “To be continued.”

 

Mikasa showed up the early next morning to pick up Eren, like she was his literal mom. And Armin still offered to drive Jean home, but Eren insisted, “We’ll take him,” despite Mikasa’s skeptical glance, and so that was that. For the whole drive to his house she cranked up the radio too loud to hold any conversation, but Jean’s head felt sort of post-beer heavy, so he didn’t much feel up to talking anyway.

They arrived at Jean’s apartment building and he thanked her for the ride as he got out. Mikasa nodded slightly, and then Eren said suddenly, “I’ll walk you to your door.”

“That’s okay,” Jean said, shutting the car door and starting up to the gate.

“No, lemme just—” From behind him he heard the fumbling click of a seatbelt and the passenger door of the car opening and shutting quickly. Eren caught up to him right at the front door of the complex.

“What, Eren?” Jean said. He felt grumpy and unwashed, and inched away from Eren’s uncomfortably close, wide-eyed stare.

“You know I — you know that I asked Connie to dare me to kiss you,” Eren said, slow and uncharacteristically hesitant.

Jean looked down at the pavement. “Yeah, I know.”

Everyone knew — Eren’d had never been any good at subtlety. He’d spent the past year being his version of nice to Jean, arguing but not punching, finding other ways to spend time with him, to share small touches with him. If anything, Jean was surprised something like this hadn’t happened sooner.

(Well. It _maybe_ almost had, at Eren’s birthday party, when the birthday boy had come onto him in a tequila-shot fueled burst of bravery. Only then it hadn’t, because Eren had promptly thrown up all over Jean’s shoes and spent the rest of the night hunched over a toilet, so Jean didn’t count that and he _definitely_ didn’t feel disappointed about it, or the fact that Eren had been subsequently too embarrassed to make a move until now.)

“Yeah, okay,” Eren said, scratching the back of his head. “So you know that I… I really like you, yeah?”

“Sure,” Jean mumbled. Eren was clearly waiting for him to say something else, but there _wasn’t_ anything else, and even if there was, Jean never subscribed to the same heart-on-sleeve brand of idiocy that Eren did.

Waiting was also not one of Eren’s strong suits. He burst out impatiently, “Jean, do you like me?”

“Jesus,” Jean muttered. He felt his cheeks and ears burning. “Do we really have to have this conversation?”

“It’s just, I can’t tell with you, sometimes,” Eren said, sounding heated and bitter now. “You’re hard to deal with.”

“ _I’m_ hard to deal with?” Jean said in disbelief. “Have you ever once looked in a fucking mirror, Jaeger?”

Eren crossed his arms and got that stupidly stubborn look in his eyes. Like he was willing to plant himself here outside Jean’s apartment for weeks if that was what it took to get his way. And Jean didn’t have the time, or the energy, for that kind of standoff, so he decided to give in a little.

“Let’s not fight, asshole,” he said, exhaling. “You said to be continued, right? I’ll text you.”

“Really?” A slow, beatific smile lit up Eren’s face.

“Yeah.”

“You mean it?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jean said, giving Eren a little shove. “Now get outta here, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Text me!” Eren called over his shoulder as he practically skipped back to Mikasa’s car. “Or maybe I’ll text you!”

Jean watched them drive off, Eren still wearing that dumb, goofy smile and _punching the air triumphantly_ , what a loser. He’d meant it about wanting to get some more sleep now, it was barely past eight in the morning after all, but nearly the second he flopped into his bed there was a text from Eren.

**can tbc be tonight?? :D**

Jean rolled his eyes heavily and was decidedly not grinning ear to ear as he replied.

**my place or yours?**

 

* * *

 

 

July

 

The beach was Eren’s idea, because of course it was.

“A day trip! We take two cars, hang out on the boardwalk until it gets dark and then have a beach bonfire!” He slammed his open palm on the table for emphasis until the forks rattled. Luckily there was no one else in the diner at midnight, and the waitress behind the counter was so used to them that she didn’t even spare a glance. “Guys, it would be so fun! The ocean!”

Armin smiled. “I’m down. I haven’t been to the beach in ages.”

“Right?” Eren exclaimed. “Which is bullshit, I mean what’s the point of living in California if we never even go to the beach?”

By now, everyone was so used to Eren’s weird beach obsession that they just ignored it. Eren had spent the first twelve years of his life never even seeing the ocean, so he was always going on about it when he arrived in town back in seventh grade. It was one of many reasons Jean, who badly needed an outlet for his parents’ ugly divorce, found it so easy to pick on him. But Eren was the type to pick right back, so he had never really let Jean get to him, and he had never stopped being fascinated with the sea.

“So when do you wanna go?” Reiner asked.

“I mean, hell, let’s go tomorrow,” Eren said.

“ _Tomorrow_?” everyone else echoed in disbelief.

“Yeah, no, technically today, I guess,” Eren amended, looking at the cracked screen of his phone. “Like mid, late afternoon.”

“Eren, are you fucking kidding me,” someone said. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Jean.

“Fuck, dude, it’s _summer_ _vacation_ ,” Eren half-laughed derisively. “I know none of you have shit else to do anyway.”

That was true enough, which is how they all ended up meeting at Reiner’s house at three that day, loading up Reiner’s mom’s minivan and Mikasa’s station wagon, and speeding southbound on 880 for Santa Cruz. Jean wasn’t crazy about riding in either car — Mikasa was prone to road rage and Reiner had a terrifying lead foot — but Eren tugged him into the backseat of Mikasa’s Honda and he gave in with only a little protest. He was fully prepared to fend off Eren’s likely advances during the drive, because no, Mikasa was not _actually_ Eren’s mom but when he thought about kissing Eren in front of her it sure as shit _felt_ like it, but it turned out he needn’t have worried. Annie, riding shotgun, started the four of them on a rollicking debate about how to survive the zombie apocalypse, and they pulled into the boardwalk parking lot an hour and a half later still arguing whether a gun or a blade would be the better weapon.

“Listen, it’s _range_ you want,” Jean said exasperatedly as the sun-sizzled pavement warmed the bottoms of his feet through his thin sandals, “you don’t want to get bottled up with zombies at arm’s length, that’s how you get overwhelmed, that’s how people fucking _die._ ”

“You’re not looking at the big picture,” Mikasa said. “Ammo-wise, you’re fucked when you run out if you _only_ have a gun.”

“I’m not saying you should _only_ have a gun. I’m saying that the _ideal_ weapon—”

“Are we talking about the apocalypse?” Sasha bounded over cheerfully. “It’s all about crossbows, baby!”

Together, all eleven of the wended through the parking lot and into the boardwalk proper. After agreeing to meet up again at sundown to claim a firepit for their bonfire, they split up into groups to roam the boardwalk. Bertholdt, who hated rollercoasters, let Ymir and Reiner steer him towards the haunted house with Armin and Krista tagging along merrily to watch the carnage. Sasha and Connie made a beeline for the Dippin’ Dots vendor, while Annie and Mikasa headed for the arcade to play shooting games. Jean let Eren cajole him into buying an unlimited ride pass, and Jean should have predicted that this would turn into a twisted pissing contest of motion sickness tolerance, but he let Eren lead him around anyway, and ended up puking into a trash can next to a death trap called the Cyclone.

“I’m sorry,” Eren said through ill-disguised giggles, even as he was rubbing soothing circles into Jean’s back. “If I had known this would upset your widdle baby tummy so much I wouldn’t have made you go five times—”

“Shut up,” Jean moaned. “Just shut up. You’re buying me cotton candy. And soft serve.”

Eren also bought him a jumbo bottle of water, and after Jean’s stomach settled they opted for the log ride, the one that ended in a massive splash zone, with Eren sitting in the front of the log to prove his atonement. And as they stepped off the ride, Eren blinking fat droplets of water from his long black lashes and stretching the already thin white tank top away from his taut, pale stomach to wring the water out of it, Jean had to admit that this basically made up for the Cyclone. And he couldn’t help but reach for Eren in the dark exit stairwell, curl his fingers around the damp hairs at the back of Eren’s neck, push in close for a quick kiss. Eren smiled wickedly.

“You wanna find someplace private?” he whispered while Jean was still close.

“Sure, whatever,” Jean replied nonchalantly, like his heart wasn’t pounding, like tidal waves weren’t crashing, roaring through his eardrums with want for the feel and taste of Eren hot and bare beneath him.

“How about there?” Eren said as they walked unhurriedly down the boardwalk. He jerked his head at a public beach bathroom down on the sand. “You want me to blow you in the bathroom? Right out in the open, where anyone could hear—”

“Oh my god,” Jean said, sucking in a breath and willing his dick not to react. “Shut up.”

“Are you kidding me, you love this,” Eren said with a smirk.

“Fuck you, dude.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.”

They made their way through the crowd, pushing slowly through the mass of people and aiming for the staircase that led to the beach. Eren didn’t hold Jean’s hand, exactly, but it was like he couldn’t stop touching: ghosting his fingers at the seams of Jean’s shorts, thumb hooking momentarily through a belt strap, grinning so close that Jean could hear him breathe. Jean leaned into it, letting their bare arms go flush, bumping their hips together, and for a few short moments it was just the two of them, smiling suggestively at each other in the fading sunlight, with nothing and no one else.

They broke out of the boardwalk pileup and made it to the beach at last, Jean running down the smooth-worn wooden planks and Eren hurdling over them and landing with a stagger in the sand. The bathroom was a very public affair, some twenty yards away, with tourists and swimmers and families ringed around it, a line of summer camp kids in matching lime green T-shirts wriggling impatiently and yelling and poking at each other as they waited for the toilets.

“Yeah, so maybe,” Jean said, eyeing the children, “ _not_ here?”

“Maybe not,” Eren agreed.

Jean was ready to wheel right around and search for some other dark corner of the boardwalk to desecrate when he caught sight of a familiar face — tanner now, and somehow more square — framed by brown hair — longer than he remembered, under a baseball cap he didn’t recognize — and he froze. It was only a split-second glance, but he was sure that was Marco standing there with the campers, in the same ugly lime green T-shirt, still managing to look as handsome as ever.

Eren seemed to feel him go tense. “What’s wrong?”

Jean looked helplessly at Eren, who was confused but obviously still eager. And god, not that Jean didn’t still want Eren to blow him, but the fun sexiness of it had been marred by this sudden reminder — only that wasn’t Eren’s fault, so Jean, determined not to acknowledge Marco at all, said, “Nothing, let’s go find somewhere else.” But then:

“Jean!” Marco’s voice cut through the air, over the chatter of his campers. “And Eren! Is that you guys?”

Eren’s head whipped around to watch Marco jog over to them, and then he looked back at Jean, and his expression went stormy.

“Marco,” he said shortly, as Marco came to a halt before them.

“Hey,” Jean said. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” Marco said, looking it. “Busy right now though, otherwise I’d love to catch up with you, but jeez — it’s been forever, hasn’t it? Can’t believe how fast the summer goes by. But I’ll be home until September, so maybe I’ll see you around? We should hang out.”

Jean shrugged and smiled weakly. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You too, Eren,” Marco said, “see you around, yeah?”

“You got it,” Eren said stiffly, “see you.”

Marco said goodbye and returned to his charges, but not before shooting them both that signature genuine smile. Jean barely had a chance to let it sting before Eren was taking him by the hand and dragging him in the opposite direction, towards the water.

“Should we, uh,” Jean mumbled, “keep looking for a place to—”

“I’m not really in the mood anymore,” Eren said.

“Okay, me neither.”

They settled barefoot and crosslegged into the sand to watch the waves, and a good minute or two ticked by before Jean even fully processed the fact that he’d just seen Marco for the first time in almost a year. It felt… like nothing, kind of. Eren was glaring fiercely out at the water, fists digging into the sand, but Jean was so numb he couldn’t even muster up a frown.

After a long while of sitting in silence, Eren spoke up.

“I’m not actually an idiot,” he said. “I know how bad your thing with Marco fucked you up last summer.”

Jean said nothing. Eren didn’t know, not really, because no one knew. Because last summer he’d gone all in on that stupid crush and cut out everyone who warned him not to, which was everyone, and then he’d been all alone when it all caved in, Marco being completely earnest and meaning nothing bad by it when he said, “It’s been fun, Jean, but I’m pretty sure I’m straight, actually. We’ll always be friends, right?”

Eren knew what their friend group at large knew, which was that Jean had put love first and let it take sweet, smiling advantage of him, before shutting his heart away and loudly declaring that love wasn’t welcome around here anymore. Eren knew that, and had still shot his shot. Jean had to give him credit for that, at least.

“Yeah,” he said now. “Yeah, I know I’m fucked up.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eren said. “Well, you are, but not like that. That’s not the point. I just meant — well, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay, I just… I dunno. It pisses me off that that happened. It pisses me off that you’re still not over him.”

“I’m over Marco,” Jean said automatically, and found that it was true. He could be over a person and still shocked to see them. He could be over a person and still carry the marks they’d left on him.

“You act like you’re not,” Eren said sulkily.

“What, are you jealous?” Jean said, a little teasingly. But Eren whipped his head up and looked truly, burningly indignant.

“Maybe I am!” he said. “Maybe, _I’m_ not over how it felt, watching you look at him the way you did. Maybe I want you to look at _me_ that way. I don’t think that’s so crazy.”

“God,” Jean sighed, “you really are an idiot.”

Eren looked like he had words about that, but Jean leaned in and kissed them right out of his mouth. It really was easier when they didn’t talk — and the way Eren kissed spoke volumes anyway. Jean was well familiar with his passionate one-track mind and, now that they’d been hooking up for nearly a month, his passionate one-track body. Eren pressed into Jean, clambered into his lap and let his sunkissed skin melt warm against Jean’s in the purple-gray of twilight. Here, out on the beach, Eren kissed slowly and with purpose, his hands exploring carelessly all the places he knew Jean liked to be undone. Jean hadn’t been in the mood but, god, it was so easy to let Eren take him there.

A deliberate cough came from behind them.

“Haha, Sasha you owe me five bucks.”

Eren and Jean flew apart, Jean skittering backwards like a crab and looking up to see all of his friends standing there, expressions running the gamut from wholly unimpressed to downright gleeful. Eren had landed on all fours a few feet away looking deeply indignant at having been interrupted.

“You bet against this outcome, Sasha?” Reiner said, amused.

Sasha fished a crinkled bill out of her pocket and forked it over to Connie. “Nah, I betted that we’d catch them making out before the sun went down. Only missed it by like ten minutes though!”

“You’re all terrible people,” Jean said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ymir said, sounding bored. “So, firepit? Bonfire? Ringing any bells?”

“Or did you want to stay dry humping here while the tide comes in?” Krista said. “We could just leave you to it.”

“We’re coming, Jesus,” Eren grumbled.

They trudged after the others to the chosen firepit, and Jean leaned down to whisper in Eren’s ear, enjoying the way it made him shiver even in the warm evening:

“To be continued.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> except not to be continued lol. But do you want to know how it would have ended? They would have kept boning all summer, argued until Jean admitted his feelings and got over his insecurities, and then agreed to try LDR for colleges on opposite coasts of the US. and the sequel 10 years later would reveal that they broke up almost instantly in college lol but meet again later in life in the same city and make it werk


	2. fake marriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beloved fake marriage trope! I've held onto this au for a long time because I love it so, but I don't think I'll really finish it. It's still extremely near and dear to my heart, though. I also had the idea that I would eventually write the Mulan-esque Mikasa companion piece detailing her exploits in the army and her relationship with enemy spy Annie Leonhart, but alas.

“I don’t think that this is going to work,” Armin says, arms crossed and wearing a very familiar look on his face. It’s the look he always gets when he thinks Eren is being an idiot — a look that means, ‘I’m not going to stop you but I am going to be a smug ass about it when this all goes horribly wrong.’

“It’s going to work,” Eren says testily. “Because it has to. Because I have the worst sister in the entire world. And I don’t have a choice.”

“I feel like you have a lot of choices,” Armin says. “And most of them don’t involve you stuffing yourself into a wedding dress and mentally preparing yourself to have relations with Mikasa’s betrothed.”

“Okay, ew,” Eren says, wrinkling his nose. “Number one, I am not in any way shape or form going to have _relations_ with him. You _saw_ the portrait of him, right?”

Armin rolls his eyes.

“And two, judge me if you must, Armin, but you can _not_ tell anyone,” Eren says very seriously. He tugs at the collar of the silken wedding gown to straighten it. “Seriously. Not even your grandfather.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Armin says. He reaches over and adjusts the gauzy white veil so that it falls evenly, framing Eren’s cheekbones. “He’d keel over and die from the shock if I did.”

Eren sighs. In the full-length mirror, his reflection sighs back, a bizarre sight to behold: a wiry, muscled bride in an ill-fitting Oriental dress, lips painted a deep crimson, unruly eyebrows plucked to a feminine arch. Armin managed to rustle up a jet-black wig, but neither he nor Eren really know how to style it, so they’ve tucked most of it away under a traditional bridal headpiece, and only a few stray tendrils are left, curling over the nape of Eren’s neck. Over the headpiece they’ve also affixed a more Western veil, white and lacy, just for another layer of concealment. And when they throw the big fluffy white shawl around Eren’s shoulders, it helps a great deal in obscuring how poorly the dress fits his figure, and if he squints at the mirror, the overall impression isn’t _so_ terrible. But he also doesn’t look like himself. And the way Armin keeps periodically glancing at him and snickering softly isn’t helping either.

“It’s lucky you and Mikasa are about the same height,” Armin remarks. “If I get far enough away, you kind of almost do look like her. Maybe you’ll prove me wrong and pull this off.”

For all of his skepticism and snide remarks, Armin has been a great help in Eren’s quest to scrape together the most farcical wedding in the history of Shiganshina. Fortunately, Mikasa had decided a while ago that she wanted to be married in the tradition of her mother’s culture, which meant a relatively private ceremony followed by a long reception. This in turn meant that if Eren played his cards right, he could take his sister’s place in the wedding without anyone suspecting that Mikasa had in fact run off the week before to join the army.

 

In fairness, as Eren was forced to acknowledge after the initial shock of betrayal had faded, Mikasa had only run off for the sake of the household. Ehrmichan law clearly stated that each registered household was required to send at least one able-bodied man to enlist in wartime. And the most able-bodied man of the Jaeger family, obviously, was Eren.

Well, it was _supposed_ to be him, until he went and broke his stupid leg. And then the only eligible male in the household had been Grisha, sixty-eight and not getting any younger, the only doctor in their small town, whose absence would be potentially debilitating. Eren had hated himself for a while, for forcing his aging father to take up arms and trek out to fight a brutal war against Titania — and then Mikasa had gone and run off to enlist in his place, leaving behind a heap of chopped-off black hair and a succinct letter telling them not to try and stop her. So Eren had gotten in a good few days of hating her instead, before once again hated himself. Because Mikasa had gone in Eren’s place and under his name, and since the punishment for falsifying one’s identity in the military was death, no one could be allowed to know that it wasn’t Eren out serving now. So he had to be sequestered at home, with extra time to reflect on how royally he had fucked up.

Then there had been no time to hate himself, because they had to deal with the fact that Mikasa had disappeared only ten days before she was meant to be married to the son of a new-money family from Trost, and as a family with a good reputation but absolutely no money anymore, it was not a union they could afford to lose.

“We could try to delay?” Eren said hopefully.

“The boy will be arriving very soon, we wouldn’t be able to turn him away in time,” Grisha said grimly. “No, I think we have to hold the wedding.”

“What, and let the poor fool marry a doll in a dress?” Eren said. “How will you procure a double for Mikasa without letting out our secret?”

Grisha gave him a long, pointed look.

“No,” Eren said, horrified. “No, no no no—”

 

So that’s how he ended up here, stuffed into Mikasa’s wedding dress, pacing uncomfortably about in his father’s study as they wait for the groom to arrive. Jean Kirstein, third son of the Kirstein Manufacturing Kirsteins, hardly a noteworthy name in the bustling capitol of Trost but a great catch for the Jaegers, who had long fretted that perhaps they wouldn’t be able to marry off their adopted daughter at all. Carla had always said that even if they couldn’t, all the better because she’d be able to keep Mikasa at home for herself; Grisha, meanwhile, had set about the task with a manic fervor because, in his words, he was determined his children should have _some_ money when he was gone, even if it didn’t come from him. So he had shopped Mikasa around with little luck, until the Kirsteins had responded to the respectable Jaeger name and agreed that Mikasa might make an acceptable bride to their youngest son, and of course they would love to come and receive her directly in Shiganshina but were oh so terribly busy, and mightn’t they just send Jean himself to collect her and complete her quaint little foreign ritual before bringing her back for a _real_ wedding in Trost? Eren and Mikasa both had voiced their vehement disapproval of this in both its substance and its condescending tone, but Grisha had replied that, yes, that would suit the Jaegers just fine, and so they are expecting Jean any time now on this brisk fall afternoon.

“Why does she even have to get married anyhow,” Eren grumbles through his teeth, stomping as well as he can stomp on his tender, broken leg in the restrictive dress. “To some snobby prick from _Trost_ , no less… and then she runs off and makes _me_ do it instead!”

“I’m sure that’s not why she ran off,” Armin remarks dryly from the doorway.

“But she knew it would turn out like this!” Eren says, whipping around and looking tortured. “It’s so unfair!”

“Yes, and it was _so_ fair that she was going to have to go through with this marriage that she didn’t want in the first place.” Armin rolls his eyes. “You know she left to risk her life at war for you and your dad? The least you can do is marry her husband in her place.”

Eren chooses to respond only with a long, passionately agonized moan.

It’s at this moment that Jean Kirstein appears, popping up behind Armin and saying, “Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Eren’s head whirls to look at him so fast his neck nearly cracks. There, in the doorway to the study, is a tall, broad-shouldered specimen wearing a navy blue suit and a nervous expression. He’s got his eyes fixed on Eren as he advances slowly.

“Mr. Jaeger said I might find you here,” Jean says, taking a few steps into the room. Armin watches him pass, mouth shut in a wobbly line as though he doesn’t trust himself to speak. “I wanted to introduce myself before the ceremony.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Eren says. He almost curtsies, but thinks better of it. The more girly he tries to act, the more apparent it will be that he is not a girl. And he only means to keep Jean fooled through the short ceremony today before telling him the truth of the matter, but even that is feeling like a gargantuan task. He knows his voice is too deep a register to pass for female — already Jean looks caught off-kilter.

“Miss Mikasa,” Jean says. He’s made it all the way the center of the study now, his face bathed in morning light from the window. He inclines his head and reaches for Eren’s hand. Belatedly, Eren realizes that he must give it. He extends his arm, limp-wristed, for Jean to kiss, and hears Armin positively snort from the doorway. Bastard. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

Maybe here Eren should make small talk, but faced with the real person, he finds it difficult to do anything but blurt the truth. That not being a spectacular option, he bites his tongue instead.

Jean hasn’t moved away and is staring at Eren quite curiously now.

“You look,” Jean says, clearing his throat, “different from your picture.”

Eren wants badly respond, _As do you_ , but he swallows it down. The Jean whom Mikasa had instantly dismissed as “plain,” the boy in the black and white portrait they had received by post all those months ago, had been a pinched-looking, peaky youth with shaggy hair, a long jaw, and dark, sullen eyes. Standing before him is a young man who has grown into his skin, with pleasing, symmetrical features and light, barely-there freckles dusting his nose and cheeks. He’s got long legs, a tapered waist, and a well-filled out chest, too. He’s very, very far from plain.

Before Eren can think how to respond, Jean hurries to finish his sentiment.

“I’m sorry, that was a rude thing to say, I didn’t mean it badly at all,” Jean says, flushing. “It’s only that… well. I, er, hope you don’t mind, but when your father sent the picture, I… spent quite a lot of time studying it.”

Eren can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Eager to meet me?”

“It was a pretty portrait,” Jean says defensively. Then he leans in a little, gazing at Eren curiously. The veil isn’t nearly thick enough, Eren thinks; he can make out every detail of Jean’s face clearly, which means Jean is able to study him as well. The scrutiny is unnerving.

“But it didn’t do your eyes justice,” Jean declares quietly. “You have truly beautiful eyes.”

“You’re rather close,” Eren says, feeling a bit as though all the air has gone out of the room.

At that, Jean seems to break out of a trance, shaking his head and taking a few steps back. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to — well, it was nice to meet you. I’ll see you at the ceremony then!” His words come out fast and stumbling, before he turns on his heel and hurries out of the study.

After a few wordless moments of silence, Eren hears Armin snickering.

“Well, I hope that assuages your fears, Eren,” Armin says. “He wasn’t the least bit suspicious — not after being entranced by your _beautiful eyes_ —”

“Shut. Up.”

 

The Jaeger residence, while a bit ramshackle in recent years, was built to be a large, sweeping compound, and has in its center a big, rectangular open garden. Eren has countless memories of his mother in the garden, pulling up weeds, watering her flowers, hanging out the laundry to dry in the sun, chasing him round and round in a spirited game of tag. This was always Carla’s favorite part of the house, and when the weather was nice, she spent most of her time here. Even towards the end, she would ask that they let her sit out in the garden, and she would turn her frail, hollowed-out face to the sky and inhale the sweet, fresh air with a smile.

Eren is so glad that she’s not here to witness his shame today.

Half the town is turned out to attend the wedding, mostly out of curiosity about Mikasa’s new city-slicker husband, which is good. They seem to be paying Jean much more attention than Eren at the moment. Standing at opposite ends of the shaded veranda, Eren and Jean are a good distance away from the assembled guests, scattered as they are throughout the garden. Between them sits a low table upon which the wine cup ceremony will take place, and next to it are two wooden chairs that are meant for Eren and Jean to sit on and receive blessings from the guests. If Eren just plays his cards right, that won’t have to happen at all, though, and he’ll be out of this wedding mess in no time.

Grisha, who will be officiating the wedding, makes his way to the wine table wearing his best black suit. The guests begin shushing each other in anticipation.

“Dear friends and neighbors,” Grisha addresses the crowd. “Thank you all for joining us today to celebrate the harmonious union of my daughter, Mikasa Ackerman-Jaeger, and Jean Kirstein of Trost.”

There is polite applause. Eren wants to gag.

Grisha continues speaking, going on about the joy of a child’s wedding, the sorrow of letting go, the honor of merging families, etc etc. Eren tunes it out, fixes his eyes on Jean across the veranda. Jean’s not listening either; he’s got his hands folded before him but keeps fidgeting and picking at them. Every once in a while he glances up at Eren, makes startled eye contact, and glances back down at the floor.

“In the tradition of the Orient, the couple will drink from each other’s cups, that their destinies may be forever entwined,” Grisha was saying finally. That’s Eren’s cue. Slowly, with painstaking care not to show his limp, Eren walks forward to the wine table. Jean matches him step for step, until they’re standing within arms’ reach of each other.

“Be seated,” Grisha says, and Eren sinks into a kneeling position, hissing out a low breath at the strain it takes on his injured leg. Jean seems to notice, and catches his eye with a worried look that Eren ignores.

The wine is poured into tiny ceramic cups, and then Eren and Jean are intertwining their arms to drink it. Eren drains his in one go, letting it burn down his throat. Jean licks his lips when he’s finished, and when he sets his empty cup back down on the table, he’s looking at Eren with something like wonderment in his eyes. As though taking in his new bride for the first time, or allowing himself to imagine their married life together.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Grisha is saying distantly. Eren and Jean stand and come together. Eren lets Jean clasp their hands together. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Eren pitches forward into Jean’s arms.

A wave of gasps and cries emanates from the guests. Eren lets his whole body go limp, feels Jean stagger a little under his weight before wrapping his arms around to steady him.

“Mikasa!” Jean exclaims, “are you alright—?” His voice breaks a little at the end. Eren’s chest is pressed flush against his, hard and flat.

“Get me inside,” Eren whispers fiercely.

“No one panic,” Grisha says, addressing the guests, “I believe she’s just fainted. I’ll attend to her in the house; everyone, please do help yourselves to the refreshments along the back wall.”

Jean drags Eren into the house, and as soon as the door to the veranda is shut behind them, Eren straightens up, pushes back the white veil from his face and says, “So, we need to talk.”

“I’ll say!” Jean says, looking livid. He glares down at Eren, taking in his strong jaw, Adam’s apple, hard shoulders. “You aren’t Mikasa, are you?”

Eren shakes his head, and feels the wig come a little dislodged. Jean doesn’t miss that, either.

“My God, you’re...” he says, trailing off as though he can’t bear to say the words.

“Not female?” Eren says, raising an eyebrow. “Very perceptive of you. Let’s go to the study so we can talk, Jean.”

“Why should I?” Jean demands. “Who are you? Where’s Mikasa? What the _hell_ is going on here?”

Grisha enters the hallway then and takes Jean by the elbow. “I’m sorry to have deceived you, Mr. Kirstein. We’ll explain everything shortly.”

“I don’t see any way you can reasonably _explain_ this obvious _scheme_ to swindle my family,” Jean seethes. Even so, he lets Eren and Grisha steer him to Grisha’s study and sit him down in the stiff-backed oak chair.

“It isn’t a scheme,” Eren says. “You’ll have Mikasa as your bride, she just… isn’t here right now.”

“Then where is she?” Jean demands. “And _who are you_?”

“I’m Eren,” Eren says, pulling off the wig and headpiece and veil in one tug. He can feel his sweaty hair sticking up unbecomingly. “Your new brother-in-law.”

Jean looks appropriately horrified. “I almost _kissed_ you.”

“Well you didn’t.” Eren shrugs off the big, fluffy shawl and lets air cool his bare arms. “And believe me, I’m as glad as you are about that.”

Jean doesn’t looked appeased. He crosses his arms and says, “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Eren lets Grisha take over at this point, but when the explanation has concluded, Jean still isn’t satisfied.

“Alright, but,” he says, “what am I supposed to do now? I understand I can’t reveal the truth, for Mikasa’s safety, but — what am I meant to tell my family? I obviously can’t bring _him_ back to them!”

Eren makes a rude face.

“That’s something we shall discuss tonight,” Grisha says briskly. He gives Jean what must surely be meant as a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making his way to the door. “For now, I must get back to our guests. You two may stay here — I’ll tell them you are attending to your new wife’s health, Jean.”

Jean looks as though he’s just been made to swallow an entire lemon. When Grisha is gone, he groans and slumps down, sliding half out of the chair.

“What on earth has my life come to,” he mumbles to himself, rubbing his temples aggrievedly.

“Look on the bright side,” Eren offers, going to perch on his father’s desk. He swings his legs off the edge. “The portrait you were sent didn’t lie. You don’t have to marry a hideous brute, you’ll get the beautiful maiden you were expecting.”

Jean shoots him a look. “That is the _last_ thing I care about right now.”

“Well it’s about the _only_ thing that’s sure at the moment,” Eren retorts. “You think you’re the only one who doesn’t care for this situation? I hate it just as much as you do. In fact, I’m sure I hate it _more,_ because I’m the one with a broken leg who has to be stuck in this humiliating situation for no reason—”

“ _You’re_ humiliated?” Jean says incredulously. “ _I’m_ the one who’s humiliated! This was supposed to be my wedding! It’s not enough that I have to come, alone, all the way out here to the middle of godforsaken Shigan back country because my parents can’t be assed to make the trip. No, on _top_ of that, I get here to collect my poverty-stricken bumpkin bride from a third-rate family, whose _only_ redeeming quality is her pretty face, only to be met with a _man_ in a _dress—”_

Eren stands and closes in on Jean, slapping him swiftly across the face. Jean looks suddenly pale and stunned and furious.

“Don’t,” Eren says evenly, “don’t you _ever_ talk about Mikasa like that again.”

Jean lifts a hand to touch his cheek. The place where Eren’s palm made impact is slowly going an angry red.

“I knew you’d be like this,” Eren says. “You don’t even deserve her.”

And he swivels around to march out of the study, with as much speed and dignity as his broken leg will afford him. 

 

Eren half expects that after his little outburst, Jean will give up the game and go back to Trost empty-handed. But when he goes to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner that evening, he finds Jean and his father already there, sitting at the table looking serious. The red mark on Jean’s cheek has faded, mostly. He averts his eyes as Eren enters the room.

“Eren,” Grisha says. “We’ve arrived at a solution. I think this is going to be for the best for everyone.”

“Great,” Eren says. He heads for the cupboard, rummages for the big soup pot. “Hope you like stew, Jean.”

Jean scrunches his brow and says a small, “Yes.”

“Mikasa has come down with a serious illness, and must be confined to bed rest,” Grisha goes on. “As we are not sure how long her convalescence will last, Jean will return to Trost alone and come back to fetch her as soon as she is well. He’ll spend a short while here of course, before we ascertain the extent of Mikasa’s illness, and depart after a week’s time.” Grisha clears his throat. “Eren, when your leg is well you must go after her and take back your name. We shall write to her, informing her of the plan.”

“Fine,” Eren says, pulling down a cutting board and beginning to slice potatoes. He should be happy with this plan — in a week, he’ll be free and clear of Jean, and as soon as his leg heals, he’ll be able to go and claim his rightful place in the military. Everything’s going to work out just as he wanted. But he can’t shake the small, bitter ache lodged in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn’t even know what it _means,_ so he just keeps on chopping vegetables, the knife slamming against the cutting board with a series of satisfying _thunks_.

“I have some business to attend to now,” Grisha says, “you two must eat without me.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving Eren and Jean alone in the kitchen. For a while it’s silent but for the sound of Eren’s meal preparation, until Jean gives an awkward cough and says, “Do you need any help?”

“No,” Eren says rudely. “I’ve only got one broken leg, I’m not _completely_ useless.”

“That isn’t what I — oh, whatever,” Jean huffs. “God, but you’re touchy.”

“Good thing you won’t have to put up with me for more than a week, then,” Eren says. “You can have the whole west wing of the house. I won’t bother you.”

“Fine by me,” Jean says exasperatedly. The bitterness in the pit of Eren’s stomach intensifies.

“Fine.”

There’s the abrupt scraping of the chair legs against the wooden floor, and irritated footsteps as Jean leaves the room. Eren finishes the stew and eats dinner by himself. Jean is a guest, and Eren wouldn’t begrudge him his meals, but that doesn’t mean they have to eat together. He leaves out a bowl and spoon next to the soup pot before retiring to his room for the night.

 

Eren manages to avoid Jean entirely for the next few days. If not for the used dishes left in the kitchen, he might not even know that Jean was even still around. It seems that he’s been staying holed up in his room, which is a bit depressing but also none of Eren’s concern. At least, not until Grisha is summoned on a house visit out in the mountains, a three-day round trip. That still wouldn’t be enough to make Eren talk to Jean, except that the pantry has begun to run low on perishables, and he doesn’t much fancy the thought of subsisting on porridge and cured meat until his father comes back. They’re poor, but they’re not _that_ poor.

So, reluctantly, Eren finds himself standing before Jean’s bedroom door in the west wing, steeling himself for a few moments, and then knocking sharply on the door.

Jean opens it after a few moments looking a bit suspicious.

“What do you want?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Eren says.

“Good morning,” Jean says. “What do you want?”

“As you know, my father is out of town at the moment,” Eren says. The surprised look on Jean’s face tells Eren that he had not in fact known this. “And I am not allowed to leave the house. So I was wondering if you might run an errand for me.”

“Oh,” Jean says. “Okay.”

That was easier than Eren had anticipated. “I just need a few things from the town market. I’ll give you a list, and some money.”

Jean nods, running a hand through his sandy brown hair. “Sure. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed.”

It’s then that Eren realizes that Jean is wearing only a flannel robe and light cotton underclothes, looking sleepy and exposed. His collarbones and the top of his chest peek out from a baggy gray undershirt. Eren swallows.

“Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He sends Jean off midmorning and expects him back within an hour, but it’s well past noon when he finally comes trudging back to the house.

“Did you get lost or something?” Eren asks, amused, as Jean enters the kitchen, his arms loaded with provisions in brown sacks. “Wait, that’s way more than I asked for.”

“I didn’t get lost,” Jean says, dumping everything onto the table, “people just kept talking to me.”

“Ah, well, you’re a rarity,” Eren says. “They probably wanted to know all about life in the big city.”

“I can’t believe how many people asked me about steam engines,” Jean says. “You people _do_ have trains out here, I know it for a fact.” He pulls a fragrant bouquet of flowers out of one of the sacks and hands it to Eren. “Here.”

“You bought flowers?” Eren says. Their fingers brush as he takes the bouquet.

“The flower-seller gave them to me,” Jean says with a shrug, turning back to the table, “for Mikasa.”

“Oh, right,” Eren says. “I’ll put these in water, then.”

Jean continues to unload the produce and eggs and fresh meat that he’s bought, and Eren puts it all away in its proper place. The flowers go into a tall glass vase. When they’ve finished, Jean says, “Before I forget — here.” and hands Eren back the purse he’d set off with. It feels just as heavy as it had this morning, and Eren opens it to check. Sure enough:

“You didn’t spend any of this!”

“I used my own money,” Jean says, looking a bit defiant. “Might as well, my money’s the reason your family wanted me in the first place.”

Eren can’t really refute that. “You didn’t have to,” he says haltingly.

“I just felt like it,” Jean says. He leans against the kitchen table. “Listen, I’ve been thinking on it these past couple of days, and — I’m sorry I said all those things about your sister, and your family, and — you, Eren. It wasn’t called for.” He sounds sincere.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Eren says in response, but he can’t help adding, “although you were sort of asking for it.”

That gets a laugh from Jean, and then they’re both laughing, chortles petering out into easy smiles in the afternoon sunlight. Jean looks up at Eren a bit shyly.

“I’d rather we just got along,” he says.

“We ought to,” Eren agrees, “as we’re going to be brothers soon.”

“Yes,” Jean says. “Brothers.”

 

So Jean is still a bit of a prick, but he turns out to be not _too_ bad. He’s better than having no company at all. Grisha is still gone, and though Armin comes over sometimes, Eren otherwise has no one else to spend his days with, so he lets Jean sit with him the garden and read, or talk. It’s quite nice, at times. Eren will ask Jean about the book he’s reading, or Jean will ask Eren about the different plants around the garden. The leaves in the trees are just starting to turn, and there aren’t many fall blooms, but Eren shows Jean the patch of pansies tucked away in the northeast corner, which Jean seems to enjoy.

“I’ve been wondering,” Jean says one morning. They’ve brought breakfast out onto the veranda, steaming hot tea and a plate each of corn grits, bacon, sausage and eggs. Eren is busily spreading jam onto two slices of toast, one of which he offers to Jean, who takes it with a grin. “Thanks. How did you break your leg?”

Eren grimaces. “Fell off the roof.” He points. “Right over there.”

“Seriously?” Jean says. He doesn’t sound especially surprised, though. “What were you doing up there?”

“I was trying to repair the shingles,” Eren says, taking a bite of his toast. “Because there was this nest of opossums that had got in and was scuttling around in the ceiling. We thought they’d come in through the roof, so I went up to fix it and I guess I was careless. Bam.” He claps his hands together vigorously for emphasis. “Right on the ankle.”

Jean winces sympathetically. “God.”

Eren shrugs. “It wasn’t the worst fall I’ve ever had.”

“You’re quite the daredevil, then,” Jean says, whistling. “I’ve never been hurt like that in my life.”

“When you grow up in the middle of nowhere,” Eren says, “sometimes you do things you know are foolish, just because there’s nothing else to do.”

He tells Jean about the time he fell on his arm after hanging from his feet out of one of the mountain pines, and the time he broke his nose pond-jumping.

“I’d never be so reckless,” Jean remarks, a little primly. Eren gives him a playful shove in the arm.

“Of course you wouldn’t, city boy.”

“You always call me that as though it’s a bad thing,” Jean says, shoving back. “I _liked_ growing up in the city, you know. We had lots of nice things — puppet shows, baseball leagues, candy shops. I didn’t have to experience bodily danger to have fun.”

“There are different kinds of fun,” Eren says. “I think you’d like pond-jumping, honestly. I know I’d have liked sports leagues out here.” He pauses. “I do think I want to go to Trost, at least once.”

“I can’t picture you in Trost,” Jean says, squinting at him.

“Why not?” Eren says indignantly.

“I don’t know,” Jean says. “I just see you here. You love it here.”

For a moment, Eren can’t respond. Jean is looking at him with something simple and unreadable in his eyes, and his face is so goddamn handsome, and Eren has never felt more seen, never _wanted_ to be more seen, than in this moment right now.

“It’s possible to love more than one thing,” he says at last. “I can’t know how I’ll feel about Trost if I never go.”

“Fair enough,” Jean says lightly. “Well, maybe I’ll see you there, someday.”

“Maybe, someday.” Eren lets himself think about that for a moment: a someday after his leg is better, after the war, when he can just hop on a boat and sail across the sea, to a city where Jean is waiting, smiling.

“I’ll take you to a puppet show,” Jean continues with a smirk, and Eren shoves him again, and if his hands linger a little longer than they need to against Jean’s arm, they both pretend not to notice.

 

Their lazy morning stretches into a lazy afternoon, and somehow it comes up that Jean likes to draw.

“Are you any good?” Eren asks.

“Yeah,” Jean says. “Well, I think I am, anyway.”

“Of course you do.”

“Being good or not is a matter of perspective,” Jean says. He sounds thoughtful and not defensive. “I draw things in a way that no one else could, because they don’t see or feel the way I do. If it’s unique and personal like that, it’s good enough for me.”

“Alright,” Eren says. “Could you draw something for me, then?”

“Do you have paper and pencil?”

“We might,” Eren says. “My mother used to draw. We could try looking through her old things.”

They retreat into the cool of the empty house and Eren leads the way to the trunk they never open, the one full of Carla’s things, all heavy with the smell of dust and her perfume.

Jean sits by Eren’s side and watches quietly as Eren reverently lifts each item from the trunk — a handkerchief, an old dress, a simple jewelry box — and considers it for a long moment before setting it down. When he pulls out a small framed ink portrait of Carla, sitting amongst her flowers and laughing, Jean leans in close to look at it.

“Your mother was beautiful,” is all he says.

Eventually Eren digs up two old sketchbooks. One is nearly full of drawings, the other nearly empty. Oddly, he’s never looked through them before. He finds his mother’s tin pencil box, rattling with a couple of pencils and charcoal sticks, before taking the sketchbooks back out to the garden to look at the drawings. He feels closer to her, here.

They flip through the full sketchbook first. It’s mainly nature, flowers and landscapes and birds, with a few hasty figure studies thrown in here and there. Eren recognizes his father, and a few scenes from around town: the blacksmith wiping his hands on his apron, a woman at her loom, Armin’s grandfather tending his crops, the miller scolding his son. There’s one drawing, too, of himself and Mikasa and Armin, no older than twelve, lying in the shade of a tree by the river, eyes closed, dozing off on a peaceful afternoon. 

“That’s cute,” Jean says.

“I’ve always been cute,” Eren says around the lump in his throat.

They move on to the second sketchbook. It contains only six drawings: the first three are flower beds from within this very garden. The fourth is Mikasa in her mid-teens, staring somberly ahead, fingers twisted in the fringe of her scarf. The fifth and sixth are both teenage Eren: Eren sitting up straight, the corners of his mouth quirked into the faintest of smiles, and Eren sprawled out in sleep on the veranda, a book open facedown on his chest.

Eren remembers his mother asking him and Mikasa to sit for those portraits — it was the year that she died. After she knew she was going to die, but before it had gotten really bad. Her hands eventually grew too weak and shaky to hold a pencil, and that was around the time that Grisha started packing the sketchbooks into the trunk.

Jean, who has been silent for some time, touches Eren gently on the shoulder. “Is it really okay for me to draw in this?”

Eren rubs his eyes roughly. “Of course,” he says. “I want you to. My mom would want you to.”

Jean draws the garden. The trees, the bushes, the weeds on the walkway, the pansies peeking out from the corner. The shape of the house enclosing it, and up on the rooftop, a boy, standing free in the moment before the fall.

 

Grisha comes home that evening as Eren and Jean are eating dinner together. He’s clearly exhausted from his trip, but seems pleased that the two of them are getting along at least.

“I hope you’ve both had a restful and relaxing week,” he says. “Jean, I stopped by the Springers’ place on the way in. Their boy will take you to the train station first thing in the morning, so you should be able to book passage on a ship home in plenty of time tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Jean echoes, looking slightly shocked. “Oh, that’s… good. That’s good.”

“I know it’s an unfortunate business, that we’ve got to lie to your parents,” Grisha says, “but with any luck we’ll have Mikasa back as soon as Eren’s healed. And then you’ll have your proper wedding in Trost and everything.”

“Right, yes,” Jean says. “Will… will you come?”

“I don’t know that I’ll be able to,” Grisha says, frowning. “It’d feel wrong to go so far from the town for so long… perhaps Eren would like to go.”

“We’ll see,” Eren says. They don’t have the money for him to go to Trost, and all three of them know it. He looks up at Jean to find Jean looking right back at him, eyes dark.

“You’ve been really terribly understanding about all of this, Jean,” Grisha says, going to the dish of boiled vegetables Eren’s prepared and scooping himself a serving. “I’m quite glad, really, that you’re going to be Mikasa’s husband.”

Eren takes a long time finishing his dinner. He’s lost his appetite, a little, and sees that Jean isn’t really eating either. Grisha finishes before both of them and excuses himself to his room, ready to turn in early after a long day. Eren and Jean stay in the kitchen and do the dishes together, drying them slowly and methodically in dim lamplight. When that’s done, they stand there for a moment, facing each other.

“So,” Eren begins, at the same moment Jean says, “Well.”

They both stop and look at each other, laughing a little.

“Go on,” Eren says.

“Well,” Jean says. “I didn’t realize I’d be leaving tomorrow. I’m not exactly ready.” He pauses. “Would you help me pack?”

“Yes,” Eren says at once. “Let’s get you packed.”

Eren follows Jean to his room in the west wing. It’s the first time he’s been back here since that morning he came and saw Jean in his robe. The robe itself is thrown over the back of a chair, but otherwise there’s very little to pack. Jean’s only been here a week, after all. They make quick work of it, and then they’re left just looking at each other in silence, Jean sitting on the bed and Eren sitting on the chair.

“I probably won’t go to your wedding in Trost,” Eren says after a while.

“You should,” Jean says.

“No, one was enough,” Eren says. That earns him a smile from Jean, but it fades quickly.

“So, after tomorrow,” Jean says hesitantly, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“It could be never,” Eren says. His heart is thumping wildly out of his chest, and he finds himself rising to his feet and watching Jean do the same.

“If I never do see you again,” Jean says, drawing closer, and Eren can see the rise and fall of his chest, can only hope that Jean’s heartbeat is equally as out of control, “there’s something I want to try at least once.”

“What’s that?” Eren says, but he knows.

The kiss is sudden and hard and urgent, open-mouthed and desperate, and Eren isn’t proud of the noise he makes into Jean’s mouth, breathy and wanton, but at least Jean seems not to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might really keep writing this one lol I don't knowwwww


	3. grindr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren makes a grindr account his freshman year of college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS BARELY ANYTHING BUT, I had the idea that they would encounter each other on grindr and so jean would be the only one in their friend group to whom eren was out, they would kind of relate to each other about liking dudes, and then eren would have a string of hookups, before deciding that he wanted to be with someone who actually knew him, and damn it that someone was jean. 
> 
> or something along those lines lol

It's kind of almost a joke, at first -- one Eren keeps to himself, in the privacy of his dorm room when his roommate is out. It's a joke, because, well. It's funny, right? The idea that he'd _actually_ go through with a date or a hookup or whatever with just any random guy on a whim -- it's ridiculous. Laughable.

Eren keeps telling himself this. Even after he's downloaded the app, spent a good few hours poring through profiles, uploaded two shirtless pictures to his own profile -- even after he's exchanged flirty texts with a thirty-five year old marketing executive for an entire _week_ , he still has himself half-convinced that this is all actually a joke. A big, hilarious joke.

Armin, on the other hand, does not seem convinced at all.

"Eren, in a totally non-judgmental way," Armin says carefully from over his shoulder, "why are you looking at pictures of a half-naked dude in a snapback?"

Eren whips around in his chair, slamming his phone down on his desk, headphones flying out of his ears. When had Armin come back to the room? "I'm not doing -- I -- what?"

"Do you know that guy?" Armin asks, setting his backpack down. "Or…?"

"Um," Eren says, casting about for a good lie. "Yeah, that's my, um, friend. He… sent me some… yeah. Photos. Of… his hat."

"Right," Armin says flatly, narrowing his eyes. After six months of mostly blissful roommateship, Eren has learned that Armin a) is entirely too shrewd when anyone tries to bullshit him, and b) insatiably thirsty for all forms of knowledge. There's really no point in lying to him.

"Actually, he's not really my _friend_ friend," Eren amends in a mumble, "he's just. He's someone I just met on Grindr."

Armin seems oddly unsurprised by this. "Hm."

"Yeah." Eren scratches his neck. "I just, like, downloaded it because I thought it would be funny, and now all these guys are hitting on me or something."

"Or something," Armin repeats. "Eren, are you gay?"

"Huh?" Eren laughs. "I, no, y'know, it was like a joke?"

Armin stares at him for a long moment, then shrugs and turns to unzip his backpack. "I mean, it's not a big deal if you're gay, or bi, or whatever. It wouldn't change anything for me."

"Really?" Eren says. Then flushes red -- "I mean, I'm not saying I _am_ , I -- "

"Really." Armin is calm, matter-of-fact. "I don't think anyone else would care either. At this school, I mean."

Armin's probably right, of course. They go to a small liberal arts college in the most liberal state in the country, chock full of diversity advocates and social justice debates and heated protests in the quad just about every other week. It's possibly the safest place to come out that Eren's been in his entire life, actually. He knows that, logically, it _would_ be fine if he just announced it to the school.

Well. It would be fine until someone from back home found out, and word got back to his family. If Grisha ever had reason to believe his son was a faggot, Eren has reason to believe that he'd be promptly disowned. And, seeing as Grisha's the one paying his college tuition, letting him know feels like a bad idea.

"I'm not gay," Eren says quietly to Armin now. "I'm just. Like, you know. Everybody experiments in college, or whatever the fuck."

"Yeah, okay," Armin says. "That's fine."

 

Armin knows, which is okay. A few random guys from around campus know, because Eren's matched with them, and that's okay, too. Probably.

What's decidedly _not_ okay is Jean knowing.


	4. college fuckbuddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren and Jean are friends with benefits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nooooo idea where this was going but probably just the usual fwb --> catching feelings shtick.

It's cold out, for a September night in California, but Jean's skin feels warm, especially where his arm is wrapped around Eren's shoulder. Eren's wearing a loose, sky-blue tank top, and his arms are on full display. Jean's finger tickles Eren's right bicep.

"Hey," Eren says.

"Hey," Jean giggles. It sounds like the wittiest remark he's ever made.

"Sh'we head back?" Eren says, taking a few slightly unsteady steps forward. From the house behind them, Jean can hear the thumping bass and frenetic beat and the laughter and the shrieking of the party. Still, he picks up every nuance of Eren's soft, slurred voice -- the low emphasis on we, the keyed-up anticipation, the offer hanging heavy in the air between them.

"We _are_ heading back," Jean points out, leaning heavily on Eren's side. He's not really drunk enough to need help walking, but like this, he can tilt his head close to Eren's and pick up the faint smell of his citrus shampoo -- sharp, but sweet.

"I mean, y'know," Eren says impatiently. "To your place."

Jean smirks. "Why?"

Eren growls in exasperation. "Oh my _god_ , Jean, you know _exactly_ why."

"No," Jean says, "tell me."

"So you can SUCK MY DICK," Eren all but yells. "So we can FUCK, okay?"

"Okay," Jean says happily, and the air is suddenly light and fuzzy and his vision is blurred with a delicate haze. "Wow."

"You can be so fucking annoying," Eren mutters, but he brings his left arm to wrap around Jean's back, his fingers resting lightly atop the jut of his hip.

"Wow, Eren," Jean breathes. Air whooshes out of his lips and leaves them tingling pleasantly. "Eren."

"What?"

"I'm crossed as fuck," Jean whispers. "Holy hell, I'm so fucking high."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jean nudges his forehead into Eren's. "And you look so fucking good right now."

"How did it take this long for that weed to kick in," Eren says, his voice sounding distant and amused through the wall of cotton in Jean's ears, "and why do you act like such a fool when you're stoned? Jesus."

"I don't know," Jean says, "I just -- your eyes are like cupcakes, dude."

"I promise you, they're not."

"Your _lips_ are like cupcakes," Jean says. "Or, like, those fuckin' delicious cookies you buy at Target, and I just wanna fuckin' _lick_ \-- "

"Kirstein, for the love of God," Eren snorts, "get yourself together."

"I can't, I'm all over the place, I'm everywhere, I'm -- look," he flaps his right hand, which is still dangling by Eren's arm. "I'm over here too."

"I can't take you seriously," Eren says. "Fuck."

"Don't take me seriously," Jean mumbles, and then something registers in his mind. "Hey. You didn't smoke, did you?"

"No, you dope," Eren says. "If I'd smoked, how would you get home?"

"Oh fuck, yeah. This is why you're the best," Jean groans. "See, this, this is why I love you."

"You're fucking gross tonight," Eren says. "I'm not even gonna _let_ you suck my dick, dude."

"No," Jean whines, "let me."

Eren mutters something under his breath, something that sounds a lot like, _Jean, you slut_ , but Jean pretends not to hear. So what if Eren thinks he's a slut, that's not gonna stop them from sleeping together tonight. And Jean's not going to pretend he's not excited. He'd started this night off with four shots by himself in his room, fully prepared to wallow in a stupor of sad drunk self-pity over something stupid that'd happened earlier. He didn't care if it was pathetic, he just needed to drink. But then Eren had texted him to get his ass over to rugby house, where apparently all of their friends were, and from that point on the night had started looking up. Because when he'd arrived at the rugby party, Eren had greeted him with a tipsy smile and a look in his eyes that told Jean, plain as day: _Yeah, you could get it tonight._

Jean spent the rest of the party hyperaware of Eren's smile and the shape of him under that baggy bro tank. He managed to keep himself together while they destroyed Sasha and Connie at beer pong, but afterward, when Eren had tugged him away with a smirk on his lips, Jean had surrendered everything to the prospect of tasting Eren in some dark room. They'd stumbled into the first unlocked door they found, only to be greeted by a faceful of weed-saturated air and a chorus of cheerful invitations to come on in and take a hit.

"I'll pass," Eren had said.

Jean hadn't said anything, had just settled into the circle and pulled the mouthpiece to his lips. Thoughts of hooking up with Eren had drifted away for a while in the warm haze of the room, in the long inhale and easy exhale, the rhythm of conversation.

Now, out in the crisp night air, Jean's veins are thrumming with anticipation.


	5. zombie apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil backstory from Eren's pov of [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755480); how they ended up traveling together during the apocalypse. I've had this sitting around for FOREVER now, I am DEFINITELY planning on writing it but in case I don't, I just wanted to post it here lol.

The frat house was basically the same as ever. Quieter, probably, since most of the cars were cleared out of the street, but Eren’s ears were buzzing so badly he couldn’t tell one way or the other. All that registered was the stillness of the street: bright midday sun glinting off of roofs and the tops of mailboxes, a couple of trees swaying serenely with the faint breeze. But none of the usual activity, and, more importantly, nothing dead. Eren slammed on the brakes in front of the house.

He hit the curb and rolled right up onto the lawn before throwing the SUV in park, but he figured Thomas wouldn’t care. If he was even home, which wasn’t looking likely. Either way, no one was around who’d give a fuck about his bad parking job. Eren slid out of the car and into the fresh air, feeling a little dizzy. He took a few deep breaths to clear his head; it didn’t work.

The house was clearly abandoned — Thomas wasn’t going to be home. No one else had been home. They’d all evacuated, which meant he was completely on his own, which meant… what? Should he just head for the Bay and drive until he ran out of gas? Should he stick around, wait for the government to send aid? Should he just team up with the first random survivors he met on the street?

The front door of the frat house swung open. Eren’s head shot up in surprise.

“Yo,” came an unsteady voice. “You okay?”

“Oh, fuck,” Eren exhaled. It wasn’t Thomas, but it was better than nothing. “Kirstein. I’m okay. You?”

“’m fucking awesome,” slurred Jean Kirstein. “You’re Eren Jaeger.”

“Yup.” Great. The bastard was drunk. “Anyone else in there?”

“Just me.” Jean cocked his head, and Eren flashed back to their first year critical analysis seminar, to sophomore year ultimate frisbee intramurals, to a party last October featuring neon pink jungle juice and fluorescent body paint. Of all the… “You wanna come in?”

 

It probably wasn’t going to ease the lingering dizziness, but Eren accepted Jean’s offer of vodka straight from the bottle. Turned out Jean hadn’t left the frat house at all since things started going down (which explained why he’d turned to subsisting solely on alcohol) and had a lot of questions about the state of the world.

“Power went out a while ago, so no internet,” he said. “And I don’t have a car or a radio or anything, so, I dunno. I dunno what all’s happening.”

“I don’t exactly know everything, either,” Eren said slowly. The vodka sat pleasantly warm in his stomach. “Just that there’s dead people walking around. It’s not a joke, man. They’re nasty.”

“Walkin’ around, like, _here_?” Jean said, wide-eyed. “I haven’t seen anything so far.”

“Not here,” Eren said. “North of the freeway, though…”

“You saw ’em?”

“Yeah.” Eren swallowed. “And I had to kill some.”

“Fuck, man.” Jean blew out a long breath, leaned back into the living room couch. “What the fuck.”

Eren held his hand out, and Jean passed him the vodka again.

“I hope I don’t ever have to,” Jean said, shuddering. “I thought, like, the police or whatever would take care of this shit. You think the military’s gonna show up and handle it?”

“No,” Eren said. “I don’t know. I don’t have internet, either. I haven’t seen anyone since — in days.” He took another swig of vodka. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen. All I know is — they’re walking around. And they’re hungry.”

“Jesus.”

“Looks safe here, though,” Eren said.

Jean seemed to be turning that over for a while. He got pink in the cheeks when he was drunk, Eren noticed. Fuck if this wasn’t the most surreal afternoon of his entire life: he had Jean Kirstein alone, inebriated, wearing only a thin T-shirt and sweatpants. Out in the real world: zombies were roaming the streets. Was there any logical next step in this situation?

The relationship between Eren Jaeger and Jean Kirstein could be generally summed up in two states: unprovoked aggression at a full boil, and sexual attraction at a low simmer. They had some mutual friends, but ran into each other so rarely that it had been over a year since aggression had come into the equation. One of Eren’s anger management techniques was avoiding triggers; after quitting intramurals, he’d made a point of avoiding Jean like the plague.

The sexual attraction, he just sort of resigned himself to. He remembered staring across the seminar room at Jean back in freshman year and thinking: _I love college_. Dirty blond hair, bow-shaped lips and sharp cheekbones, long long legs and all those _fucking_ piercings, Jean was a wet dream come true until he opened his stupid mouth and became the most infuriatingly cynical douchebag ever to walk the earth. But even then, Eren was kind of into it. Only this past fall, at the Zeta blacklight party, he had caught sight of Jean, shirtless and swirled in fluorescent body paint, glistening with sweat as he maneuvered out of an impromptu mosh pit, and the thought came before Eren could process it: _Yeah, I still would_.

So maybe under any other circumstances, he’d have taken the opportunity of being tipsy and alone with a half-dressed Jean Kirstein and fucking run with it. At the moment, though, the ongoing zombie apocalypse sort of took precedence.

Jean wanted to know if hospitals were still open, and what had happened with the evacuation centers. The answers to those were easy: Eren didn’t know. His best guess was that they were both breeding grounds for the virus to spread like wildfire, and therefore both fucked. It wasn’t what Jean wanted to hear, but it was honest.

Then Jean asked what Eren had been up to since it all started. That took a little finessing.

“I’ve been by myself,” Eren said. “Looking for my friends. I think they must’ve all evacuated or something, I’m not sure. No one’s been home, so I’ve been just kind of… trying not to get killed.”

More or less the truth, with one small omission.

Jean jerked his head at the window overlooking the front yard. “Crazy ride you got.”

“It’s not mine,” Eren said automatically, then had to backtrack: “Well, it wasn’t. It’s mine now, technically.”

“Whose was it before?”

“My,” Eren stumbled over the words, but he’d practiced this beforehand, god _damn_ he was the worst liar ever, “my neighbor’s.”

Jean squinted critically at the SUV. “Huh.”

“He died,” Eren said lamely. If Jean was suspicious he was too drunk to show it, so Eren pressed on. “Right in the street. I saw it happen. I didn’t have a car, so — I know it was wrong, but — I took it. And he left a bunch of stuff in there. Gear.”

“Damn,” Jean said.

With luck, that was all the explaining Eren was going to have to do. Already, Jean seemed preoccupied with another thought.

“What kind of gear?” he asked.

“Tons of stuff,” Eren said. “Tools, weapons, camping stuff.”

“Any food?”

Eren smiled a little. “Yeah. You hungry?”

“I’m fucking starving, man.”

They feasted on baked beans and protein bars and dried fruit strips, washing it all down with the last of the vodka. Jean began to drowse off on the living room couch, and Eren took the opportunity to go upstairs and root through Thomas’s room for his weed stash. The weed was nowhere to be found, but there _was_ a lukewarm minifridge containing a bag of spoiled grapes, some flavored rum, and two handles of tequila.

Eren started on the tequila by himself, only to be chastised when Jean awoke from his nap — “The fuck? Starting without me? You fucking cheater!” — and by nightfall, the both of them were well and truly wasted.

“Is it weird?” Jean said, voice far too loud. He’d insisted they migrate upstairs, where it was slightly warmer, and was now sitting crosslegged in his own bed while Eren stretched out on the floor. “I feel like it’s weird.”

“S’not weird,” Eren said. He had no idea what Jean was talking about; it didn’t matter. His head spun pleasantly, and his face tingled when he grinned.

“It’s weird,” Jean insisted, “you’re not as much of a dick as I thought you were, y’know?”

“Thanks,” Eren drawled.

“Weird it’s been three years and we never hung out, really,” Jean went on. “Dunno why. We could have. You’re pretty alright.”

“So’re you,” Eren said. He propped himself up on his elbows to look at Jean, who was looking at him. “Wanna hear what’s actually weird?”

“What?” Jean leaned forward a little.

“I used to want to fuck you, Kirstein.”

Jean laughed and licked his lips. “That’s so funny. I used to want you to fuck me, Jaeger.”

The haze fell away from Eren’s eyes and everything in the room slid sharply into focus: how flushed Jean was all over, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the yawning black of his pupils and how incredibly inviting that bed looked right now.

A tiny voice in the back of Eren’s head was telling him: _The zombie thing! Is this really the time_?

But the tequila bulldozed that train of thought with: _This is_ exactly _the time. You wanna pass on this right now, and die without ever fucking Jean Kirstein?_

“Would you still want it?” he said, voice low and rough.

Jean nodded vigorously, “ _Fuck_ yeah, I want it,” and it was as easy as that.

Before Eren had even fully clambered up and into the bed, Jean was reaching out for him, clutching too hard at his arms and leaning his head down aggressively to mash their lips together in a forceful, almost painful kiss. At least, it might have been painful if Eren weren’t so drunk and wild with desire.

“Jean,” he gasped, pulling back a little so he could maneuver himself onto the bed, “mm, _shit_ —”

“You’re hot,” Jean said against Eren’s jaw, his hands pushing Eren’s shirt up over his abs, up to his chest, “you were always so fucking hot, Eren…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the running theme of all my wips is that i am miserable at sex scenes and always wimp out right when things get steamy lmaooo


End file.
